


The Sweetest Flower That Grows

by rosytonics



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: (or at least a take on it), Cultural Misunderstandings, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kurta Lore, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Kurapika (Hunter X Hunter), Other, accidental proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 10:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosytonics/pseuds/rosytonics
Summary: “I’m saying yes, by the way. Did I neglect to say that?”Leorio’s eyebrows shuffle together. “Yes?” he asks, like he’s surprised that they’d accept his proposal. Idiot. What did he think they’d say? Thank you, but no thank you? What a moron. They kiss his hand again, and his fingers twitch against their lips. “And...what are you saying yes to, exactly...? I mean, I know, I just want to hear you say it.”(Or, a simple gift takes on a new meaning when Leorio accidentally performs a Kurta engagement ritual.)





	The Sweetest Flower That Grows

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ 
> 
> i'm so very excited to be a part of the hxh fandom now, and to share my first fic ! i'd like to thank everyone in the hxh gay rights groupchat for their support and advice! i'd especially like to thank my dear good friend murphy, who i bugged every few days with ideas and updates! (╥﹏╥)♡
> 
> togashi hasn't given us much in terms of kurta lore and culture, so i had a great time coming up with some beliefs and traditions ! i love how everyone has their own interpretations of kurta culture ! 
> 
> please enjoy, and let me know what you think ! ♡

The Kurta had names for everything. 

 

Their language curled their tongues and clicked against the backs of their teeth. They had their own words and syllables that traveled from ancestor to ancestor, mouth to mouth, perfectly preserved like a lightning bug in sap. It didn’t decay, or change with time. A Kurta born tomorrow will speak the same words, with the same inflections, as a Kurta born three hundred years ago.

 

In sixty, perhaps seventy years from now, that baby will die. His spirit will walk unafraid across the Sea of Flames that ignited the Holy Fire in his eyes. Somewhere beyond the endless sea, his spirit will reunite with those of his ancestors. Their tongues will speak the same words, and it will sound the same, and they will understand each other. If they cannot understand each other,  the ancestors may perceive him as an outsider, and cast him from the Land of the Spirits and back into the Sea, where he will burn forever. 

 

Therefore, preserving their language was paramount. No words could change. To add a word, it would be burned, and the smoke fanned towards the sea in order to feed new knowledge to the ancestors. 

 

Everything had a name. Each stone, each blade of grass, hummed at its own unique vibration that helped push forth the motion of the Earth. To harvest food was to perform an introduction—to recognize the spirit within each fruit and berry, each boar and stag, and to thank it for its sacrifice. 

 

The Kurta had names for everything, except for one thorned flower. 

 

Kurapika had only seen it once during their short childhood, clutched in Maksim’s fist as he re-entered their village to present it to Ketevan, a girl who cared for the livestock. His hands, callused and deft from weaving textiles, bore shallow cuts that dripped with blood. It stained the flower’s white petals, but blended perfectly with their red speckles and splotches. It looked effortless. 

 

He offered it to her, showed her his hands. She pulled them towards her and kissed them. Her skin was soft and russet brown. It shone copper in the sun. His blood smeared against her cheek as she kissed his palms, his knuckles, his fingertips. She had wept as she kissed him, Kurapika remembered that. Her eyes flashed and glittered like the berries they and Pairo had picked the day before. 

 

Within days, the pair were married before the whole village, murmuring their sacred promises beneath the clan’s quilted canopy. Kurapika’s parents had married underneath that canopy, as had Pairo’s. A single marriage quilt could last for three generations before it became too worn for use, and bore within it the love and good fortune of every past marriage. 

 

They’d danced with Pairo at the reception, their bare feet lifting dusty clouds of dirt from the Earth, toes tangling in the smooth grass. It was spring, the most sacred of the seasons. It was a time for new beginnings, new harvests, and new adventures. Sometimes, if they close their eyes and think hard enough, Kurapika can still feel the grass beneath their feet. They can smell the sacred flowers thrown into the fire to fill the air with sweetness, and they can taste the berries, barley, and cream stirred together in wooden bowls and topped with fresh nuts. Their father had allowed them a sip of his ale. It had tasted a little like barley, and a little like cherries and currant—mostly, however, it had tasted terrible. They can still hear the singing, and the plucking of strings, and they can still see Maksim and Ketavan, twirling together in their marriage clothes.

 

Her long skirt brushed the ground, and ruby circlets adorned each ankle. Golden hoops hung from her ears, and her eyes shone a brighter than any flame or holy stone. They remember being captivated by her, watching the way her garments swished and whirled as she spun in circle after circle, with Maksim laughing in her arms. The flattened garnets and gold coins hanging from her belt jingled in the sweetest way, and at some point during the dance, she’d kicked off her black shoes into the grass. Maksim had shed his shoes as well, just to feel the Earth beneath his feet, and soon followed them with his cape and vest. 

 

At the end of the night, everything that had not been eaten or drank was burned. Sweet drinks and desserts warped into glittery ash and reached with smoky fingers to touch the lips of the heavens. 

 

The flower, the one with the white petals and the red splotches and no name, was pressed and dried. Even as the petals shrunk, and as the moisture was sucked from the leaves, it remained vibrant and colorful. 

 

_ “Maybe someday,”  _ Kurapika’s mother had said,  _ “I will press and dry your flower. I will sew your vest and skirt, and lend you my shoes. You will wear my belt, and you will wear my crown. My earrings will find your ears, and my bangles will find your ankles and wrists. Maybe you will even marry an outsider—we’ll welcome them into our clan, and the world will see us in a different way.”  _ She’d pinched their cheek, and they’d wiggled away and disregarded her wish as commonplace sentimentality. 

 

Still, her wish never left their mind, especially when they found themselves in the arms of an outsider, a stranger with eyes that never changed. She would not be there to dry their flower or sew their vest and gown. Her crown, belt, earrings, and bangles had been lost. Looted, probably, and sold for more blood money by the Phantom Troupe. 

 

They’d left nothing behind but the bodies. 

 

The empty,  _ eyeless _ bodies. 

 

Anything that could be sold was stolen, and anything that couldn’t was destroyed. 

 

Somewhere in the world, an outsider wore Kurapika’s mother’s bangles. They wanted to find them and cut off their hands. 

 

…

 

“Now, keep still if you can, okay? This’ll sting a little, so you can squeeze my hand if you have to.” 

The needle sinks deep into the old woman’s wrinkled forearm. Her knobby fingers wrap around Leorio’s free hand and she gives him a light, friendly squeeze. It feels like she’s comforting him a little more than herself. No one likes getting shots, and Leorio doesn’t like giving them; the only person he’s ever met who _ enjoyed _ sticking pins and needles into folks was Illumi, and he wasn’t exactly a good, or even morally acceptable person. 

 

The plunger pushes the green liquid in the syringe down and out until there’s nothing left. Leorio pulls out the needle and presses a cotton ball over the the injection point before the little bubble of blood it pushed out becomes a stream. 

 

“Can you hold this for me, please?” he asks as he deposits the needle into a glass jar labeled  _ BIOHAZARD _ . He screws the jar shut and places it back in his briefcase before looking through it for some bandages. 

 

“What are all these shots for again, doctor?” the woman asks as she lifts the cotton ball. She observes the blood there, and then lowers it again. 

 

It’s the third time she’s asked in the past ten minutes. 

 

Leorio takes her hand gently and softly brushes the cotton ball away from the injection point. “The first vaccine was for influenza,” he explains patiently as he places the gauze bandage over her arm, “And the second was for shingles. The one I just gave you is for pneumonia.” 

 

She examines the bandage. Her glasses increase the size of her eyes dramatically, and they look rather funny, like she’s got two fish bowls on her face. “That’s very nice, thank you.” She sends him a bouncy, almost flirtatious smile—one that tells him that she feels a lot younger than she is. “Are you married, doctor?” 

 

Leorio’s work requires him to travel; he’s been very far north and very far south, all the way east and all the way west. Every community he journeys to has at least one person who asks him if he’s married. Some of them sound inquisitive, others sound hopeful,  and a good handful of them just sound  _ nosy _ . 

 

It should be an easy question to answer. He should just be able to say  _ no, I’m not married _ and people should leave it there. But that path forks into people either asking him out, or asking him why not. 

 

And why not? Why  _ isn’t  _ he married? 

 

Three years have passed since he and Kurapika moved into a spacious, cozy apartment in Yorknew. The kitchen has marble countertops, and the front window is so wide that it takes up half the wall and fills the living room with sunshine. Kurapika’s clothes hang in their closet, and their shoes line up by the door. It’s been three years since they got their bloody vengeance, and gave their clan’s remains a proper burial. If he had to do the math, Leorio would guess that it’s been a thousand days, give or take, since Kurapika last vanished for months on end without so much as a goodbye. They don’t ignore his calls anymore, and they often sit on the counter as he makes dinner, cookbook in hand, warning him when he’s about to overcook the carrots, or if the pasta water’s boiling over. 

 

They wash the dishes with him, and sometimes  _ almost  _ laugh when he flicks soap bubbles at them. They take showers and baths with him, complaining that he’s too tall for them to fit comfortably but affectionately scrubbing his hair. (They shower regularly now, which is a miracle all on its own.) They lie next to Leorio in bed as the two of them read their respective books, and they smile and accept every goodnight kiss. 

 

That’s not to say that there aren’t bad days, bad weeks, or bad  _ months _ . No measure of revenge can heal what’s been hurt, and no amount of Kurta burials will ever bring back what was lost. But Leorio can stretch himself across Kurapika’s heart like a bandage and hold them together when they’re about to crumble. They hold him together too, wrapping tight around him like a tourniquet to stop the tears from bleeding him dry whenever he loses a patient. Their lips press to his forehead like an ice pack on a bruise whenever he remembers Pietro and just  _ aches _ . They’re a pill to take to calm his nerves when he feels like he’s not enough, when he thinks the grief and the anxiety might take him out once and for all. 

 

He and Kurapika are walls that keep each other upright. Their relationship was a house of cards for a long, long time. One misplaced breath sent fluttering into different directions, and it took them ages to float back to each other. 

 

But they’ve built up from cards to straw, from straw to twigs, and from twigs to bricks. There’s little cracks and niches that could probably crumble them if someone pressed too hard, but it would take a helluva push. They’re  _ solid _ now. There’s mortar stuck between them, keeping them pressed shoulder to shoulder. Leorio is proud of that. Why wouldn’t he be? It took  _ work. _ It took years of pushing and pulling, of shoving and tugging. It took arguments, and an agonizing time apart. It took nights where all he did was leave voicemail after voicemail, cheek pressed against his desk, eyes hot with tears. 

 

_ “I just need to know that you’re okay…so lemme know, yeah?” _

 

It took months of telling himself that they weren’t going to call him back but calling anyway, and getting excited whenever the phone rang. 

 

Once they found each other again, it took long talks that went well into the morning. Kurapika would let him get close, but would suddenly jump away and grow closed off. These little periods of isolation got shorter and shorter, until they only needed an hour to collect themselves before coming back and sitting with Leorio on the couch. 

 

And then, they let him get so close that they could practically climb inside of one another, and things were good. 

 

Things are good. 

 

Leorio closes his briefcase and flicks down the clasps. Lifting his head, he gives his patient a winning smile. “No, not yet,” he replies, “But I have someone waiting for me at home.” 

 

He wonders what they’re doing right now. Maybe they’re reading, stretched out on the couch, occasionally yawning and arching their back. Or they could be out to lunch with Melody, eyes bright and scarlet with laughter, no longer afraid to shine. They might be sitting by the window, mug of tea in hand, leaning their cheek against the glass and wondering when Leorio’s coming home. No matter what they’re doing, they probably look beautiful, and he misses them terribly. 

 

_ “We’ve got fresh groceries, and there’s stuff in the freezer if you don’t feel up to cooking. And I did some laundry before I packed, so you shouldn’t need to worry about that. But if you need  _ **_anything_ ** _ , you know I’m only a call away and I’ll come  _ **_right home_ ** _ if”— _

 

_ “It’s just three days. I’ll be fine here. We’ve been apart for longer.” _

 

_ “I know.”  _

 

_ “And I can take care of myself, Leorio.”  _

 

_ “I know that too.”  _

 

He just  _ likes  _ taking care of them. He likes waking them up with kisses until they wrinkle their nose and complain about his morning breath. He likes going out and getting their favorite berries for breakfast. He likes making them a cup of tea and placing it in their hands with a forehead kiss and a nuzzle. He likes knowing that they’re safe, and happy, and content. 

 

“You should get them some of those flowers.” 

 

Leorio’s glasses slip towards the tip of his nose and he pushes them back up. “Hm?” 

 

“Your sweetheart back home.” The old woman’s eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles. “You should bring them the red and white flowers from up on the hill! I’m sure you passed them on your way here.” She cups her hands close together, and then spreads her fingers like blooming petals. “They’re very rare, and very beautiful! I’m sure your sweetheart would love them!” 

 

She keeps using that word.  _ Sweetheart _ . Heh. It sounds a little cheesy, but it makes him smile. Yeah, Kurapika’s his sweetheart! They might scoff whenever he kisses them and calls them  _ sunshine _ , or  _ honey _ , or  _ babe _ , but that doesn’t make it any less true! 

 

“Huh? Oh yeah, those! I was so focused on getting here that I barely noticed!” Leorio stands from his chair and drapes his coat over his shoulder. It’s  _ hot _ , even this far away from the city, and even below the canopy of thick oak trees. No matter where he goes, he can’t seem to get away from this  _ heat _ . He’s been sweating so much that the back of his shirt must be transparent. 

 

He offers his hand to his patient, who accepts it with a smile. 

 

She pats his arm. “You’re a good man, doctor.” 

 

_ Doctor _ .  _ A good man.  _ That’s all Leorio has ever wanted to be, and now that he’s there, it still feels strange. It gives him this warm, funny feeling in his chest that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. 

 

“Thanks, ma’am!” He picks up his briefcase. “I’ll be back to check in next month, but if you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call me, okay?” Leorio produces a business card from his shirt pocket and presses it into her palm. He knew he’d made it when he could print his own cards. He sometimes runs his fingers over the raised letters— _ L. Palidiknight M.D., Doctor of Medicine and Professional Hunter _ —and grins. 

 

She offers him a ride back to the train station, but he politely turns her down in favor of taking the long way. He’s learned to appreciate brisk walks in the woods. He never used to before. Maybe it’s because he lives in Yorknew now. He’s grown used to the bustle and chatter, to the honking and sputtering cars zooming stories below his bedroom window. He knows that the city air, smoggy and smoky, doesn’t taste _great_ , but it’s not until he comes out here that he knows what breathing fresh air is like. Without the crowds, vendors, and advertisements to distract his eyes, Leorio remembers just how pleasant and quiet the world can be. 

 

Leorio takes his time climbing over the hills, pausing occasionally to catch his breath. It’s not because he’s old, or out of shape, or anything! It’s just  _ hot  _ out! And his briefcase is very  _ heavy _ ! Eventually, he reaches the top. The hills below rise under the grass like a lumpy quilt, and Yorknew’s  sparkling skyline looks close enough to touch, but also so, so far. 

 

It looks cleaner from back here. 

 

He envisions Kurapika sitting at the window, a mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other. Maybe if they look out, past the city and past the royal blue water underneath the bridge, their eyes can follow along the curves of the rolling hills and find Leorio standing at the top. Maybe if he squints, he can see them too, hair golden in the afternoon sun, lips pursed as they flip the page of their book. He almost wants to wave. 

 

Taking a step back, Leorio turns and soaks in his surroundings. It takes him no time at all to find the flowers. Among all the pink, purple, and blue wildflowers that carpet the meadow, there’s only one blossoming shrub, far off to the side. It grows out the hill’s slanted edge, and Leorio carefully shuffles down the slope to get a closer look. 

 

Tall, spindly branches explode into bright white and red flowers, and waxy, jade-colored leaves. Leorio digs his heels into the dirt to keep him in place as he crouches down. Delicate white petals curl around a sweet-smelling core. The red spots and speckles don’t even look natural—it’s like someone stood there with a dripping, red paintbrush and just shook their arm a ton until they created something beautiful and new. Leorio sets down his briefcase a little further up the hill to keep it from sliding down and shuffles closer. 

 

Maybe it’s because his patient had brought it up, or maybe there’s some other reason, but these flowers remind him a  _ lot  _ of Kurapika. Leorio associates them with red for at least a billion reasons. Some of them are obvious, like the color of their eyes or the blood they’ve spilled, but others are hidden and more subtle, like the ruby kiss against their neck whenever they pull their hair back and expose their earring, or their favorite blanket. 

 

Or maybe it’s just because the flowers are pretty. 

 

He reaches out for one, brushing his fingers over the soft petals before reaching down into the bush for the stem. Instead, Leorio finds a handful of thorns. 

 

“Shit!” He tears his hand out of the bush, which, in hindsight, was probably a terrible idea, because the thorns slash at his skin and try to make him stay. Leorio looks down at his palm. Those thorns really did a number on him—little nicks and cuts crisscross all over his hand, and he’s bleeding. “Aw, man…” Twisting his body towards the top of the hill, Leorio reaches for his briefcase and drags it into his lap. He pops it open and grabs a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic. 

 

The disinfectant smells sharp and sterile, and it burns his hand as he dumps it down and lets it seep into all the cuts. He grimaces as he cleans and wraps his hand, keeping the bandages taut with his teeth as he ties them off. 

 

If anything, it makes him  _ more  _ determined to grab these flowers, just to show that he can. Not only that, but he wants to pick a  _ ton  _ of them, just to prove that he could. He wants to come home with wrapped hands, covered in dirt, gripping a handful of the most beautiful flowers Kurapika will ever see. He wants to shove them in their face and say  _ “ _ **_This_ ** _ is how much I love you!”  _ He loves them enough to shove his hands into a bush full of sharp thorns and brambles and get all scraped up not once, not twice, but  _ several  _ times—just so he can bring them home something nice. 

 

It’s about putting in the work. 

 

But…putting on some gloves for protection wouldn’t exactly  _ hurt _ . 

 

Once he’s slapped on a pair of rubber gloves, Leorio gets to work on picking every fully-bloomed flower from the shrub. He’s doing it a favor, really. These flowers would flop over and die otherwise, and block the buds from the sunlight they need to grow. He uses a pair of angled suture scissors—it’s what he’s got on hand—to snip the stems close to the root, and then tugs off every single thorn with a pair of tweezers. Just because he got his hands all fucked up doesn’t mean that Kurapika has to. He wants them to be comfortable and safe. 

 

All Leorio has to bind the bouquet together is some surgical tape, which isn’t particularly pretty or romantic, but it’s what he’s got, and he’s sure that Kurapika won’t mind. 

 

He buys a bottle of water at the train station to put the flowers in on the ride home. 

 

… 

 

They’ve grown used to being apart by now, and three days  _ really  _ isn’t a long time—but Kurapika still finds themselves sitting by the window in one of Leorio’s sweaters, waiting for him to come home. Living together and being apart for a few days is a lot harder than seeing each other every once in a while and being apart for months or years. 

 

Kurapika is used to having Leorio around all the time. 

 

And this time, they’re not the one who left home. 

 

_ Home _ . It’s weird to have one again. It’s different than where they grew up—it’s smaller, with less people and no animals. It’s in the middle of a loud city, instead of hidden deep in the woods. Kurapika doesn’t have to harvest their own food, or care for the livestock, or tend to the fireplace. All they need to do is grab a few bags and walk two blocks to the market. They don’t sleep alone in a cot, but rather in a huge bed with someone beside them. Someone who snores like a foghorn in a tunnel, but still  _ someone. _ It’s different, but it  _ feels  _ the same. They feel loved, and they feel safe; that’s something they used to take for granted before they had to live without it. 

 

The kettle whistles, and Kurapika rises from their seat by the window and makes their way towards the kitchen. They pour one mug of tea, and then another, reflexively. Leorio takes his tea with too much cream and sugar. Honestly, it’s disgraceful. Kurapika pours a generous stream of creamer into the second mug, and drops in four sugar cubes. They stir it up and set in the refrigerator to heat up for Leorio when he gets home. He’s usually worn out after these trips, and drags his feet around, whining about how tired he is until Kurapika gives him a mug of tea, a plate of hot food, and a shoulder rub. 

 

He’s like a dog that demands constant attention, and Kurapika can’t believe that’s what they’ve needed all along. 

 

They take their mug back to their seat and place it back on the windowsill. They grab their blanket and wrap it around their shoulders before crawling onto the long ottoman and returning to their book. They wove this blanket themselves, using a loom they’d built by hand because none of the stores had the right kind. Weaving lessons had bored them to death as a child, but now there’s no one left to do it. 

 

Kurapika has to do whatever they can to keep their culture alive, and the responsibility is far more daunting than seeking revenge. 

 

Sometimes they wonder what they’re supposed to do now. They feel like they’re floating, drifting in space without a purpose. They did what they needed to do, but what do they do now? Whatever they want to, they suppose, but what’s  _ that?  _

 

Kurapika didn’t think they’d get this far. They didn’t make a plan for the afterwards. Maybe they’d thought that they could just figure it out as they went, or maybe they just hadn’t expected to live this long. Either way, sometimes they find themselves wandering around, wondering what to do. 

 

They suppose that they’ll probably marry Leorio at some point, maybe have children. Leorio would be a good father, and he’s already proven himself to be a good husband. He takes care of Kurapika, and makes them laugh, and doesn’t mince his words when they’re acting inconsiderate. He lets them hog all the blankets, and kisses them awake with his dry, rank morning mouth. He calls them  _ sunshine _ , which is  _ ridiculous _ , and yet somehow endearing. He lets them lay in his lap when they read, and he plays with their hair until they doze off. Then, he carries them to bed while they pretend to be asleep. 

 

And it’s clear that Leorio wants to marry them, but he hasn’t  _ asked _ , which confuses them to no end. What’s stopping him?

 

Kurapika glances over at the shoe rack by the door. Their flats are lined up neatly, toes and heels aligned, but they look lonely without Leorio’s stupidly big loafers. He’ll be home soon, but not soon enough. 

 

The afternoon drips by slowly, like honey from a hive. Kurapika finishes one book and starts another, and reads until the horizon begins to pull the sun down from the sky. They yawn, arching their back and stretching their arms as they set down the second book. They sweep their legs over the edge of the ottoman and stand, tugging the sleeves of Leorio’s sweater down over their hands. It smells like him, and like laundry detergent. 

 

The distant sound of approaching footsteps grabs Kurapika’s attention and doesn’t let go. They wonder if it’s too eager to rush to the door and open it,  but they also wonder why it matters. They missed Leorio, and they’re happy that he’s home. Why do they feel like they should hold that back? They take quick, even steps towards the door, but it opens when they’re about halfway there. 

 

“Hey there, sunshine. I’m home!” 

 

Kurapika wants to take off like a bullet and fly into his arms, but settles for offering him a little smile. “Yes, I can see that.”

 

Leorio has his hand behind his back, which is immediately suspicious. Usually when he comes home, he approaches Kurapika with open arms, and sometimes chases them down to give them a hello kiss when they don’t greet him right away. Whenever he goes on work trips, he comes home with gifts—usually useless trinkets to give to the kids, which they love. Gon has started quite the snow globe collection, and Killua keeps the boxes and wrappers from the exotic candies that Leorio brings him from his travels. Leorio has absolutely spoiled Alluka with stuffed animals and dolls. He recently gave her a toy foxbear wearing a t-shirt that reads  _ Somebody In Setl City Loves Me!  _ Kurapika always insists that Leorio doesn’t need to bring them anything. They say it’s because they hate clutter, but really it’s because the best gift he can bring is himself. 

 

Kurapika steps forward curiously, tilting their head. Their earring dangles above their shoulder and they give their head a little shake to make it swing. Leorio loves their earring. He tells them all the time, especially when he carefully pushes it aside to kiss their neck. 

 

“What have you got there?” they ask, walking directly into his space and attempting to peek behind his back. “I told you not to buy me anything.” 

 

Leorio leans against the doorway to block Kurapika’s view and grins at them. “I didn’t buy you anything,” he promises, “Now quit—hey!” He shifts and presses his opposite side against the doorframe when Kurapika tries to dart behind his back. “Quit it, will you? God, you’re a pain.” But he’s smiling, and slowly lowering his face to eye-level, which is the only warning Kurapika gets before he smothers their face with kisses.

 

It’s probably a diversion, but it’s a welcome one. Kurapika still tips forward onto their toes as they throw an arm around Leorio’s neck and kiss him. His free arm wraps around their waist to pull them closer, to crush them to his chest. Kurapika’s love for him gets too big sometimes, and they’re afraid that one of these days, Leorio will squeeze them too tight or love them too much, and they’ll burst like ripe a cherry against him and stain him all over. They’ll soak into his clothes, and into his skin, and he’ll never be able to wash them out. The way he kisses them tells them that he wouldn’t even want to. He’d just wear them forever. 

 

Their stubborn lungs start to tighten and Kurapika pulls back from the kiss to breathe. Their hand finds Leorio’s cheek and rubs the scruff there gently as they tilt their forehead against his. 

 

“Welcome home.” 

 

Leorio smiles against their cheek and his lips drift towards their jaw. “Glad to be back.” He gives them one last kiss before giving their chest a gentle push. “Back up a little so you can see what I got you.” 

 

Kurapika raises an eyebrow and takes one step back, and then another. “You said you didn’t buy me anything.” They narrow their eyes suspiciously, but can’t help but be excited. For someone so stingy, Leorio really loves giving heartfelt gifts. He can walk into a crowded market and immediately find the perfect present for every person he knows. Kurapika likes knowing that Leorio sees things and thinks of them. “Well?” Their hands find their hips. “I’m waiting.” 

 

“I said I didn’t  _ buy  _ you something,” Leorio replies, grinning, “But I didn’t say that I didn’t  _ get  _ you something.” He pulls his hand out from behind his back, and— 

 

And Kurapika’s heart stops. 

 

Their eyes immediately snap to the petals. They’re unmistakable. Some flowers, you can get mixed up—roses and carnations look similar depending on the light—but there’s no plants like these. The mottled red pigments, splashed against a white backdrop, are one of a kind. They’re the same flowers that Maksim brought home for Ketevan and dried on their wedding day. They’re the same flowers that Kurapika’s mother wanted to press and dry for them when the day came, and then it never _did_ , but it’s coming _now_ , and how did he know? They never told Leorio what these flowers meant, which means he must’ve done _research_ , which means that he’d _planned_ this. He’d probably spent weeks, maybe months, avidly learning about Kurta culture and customs, searching during his travels for legendary, nameless flowers that he couldn’t be sure even existed. 

 

And he didn’t get just  _ one _ . No, Leorio went out and hand picked  _ five  _ of them. 

 

Kurapika’s knees feel wobbly and gelatinous.  _ He’s asking me to marry him _ , they think as their hand slaps against their chest with surprise. Their heart beats frantically into their palm and they want to rip it out, offer it to Leorio and beg him to  _ take it _ , to take  _ them _ . But they can only stare, eyes wide and blazing, and think about how much it must’ve hurt to yank all five of those from the ground.  _ He must really love me. _

The thought makes them dizzy. 

 

And then it makes them panic. 

 

Are they allowed to have this? Are they allowed to  _ want _ this? All these years of carrying around this guilt, this pain, growing around the belief that they’ll never deserve to be happy—are they finally free? They have done what they came to do in this life. They came, they saw, they conquered. They  _ grieved _ . Now, after all is said and done, what do they do with the time they have left? It could be thirty years. It could be thirty minutes. Thinking about time makes their guts clench and writhe. 

 

Leorio still doesn’t know. They’ll probably never tell him. Otherwise, he’ll drive himself mad trying to find a solution, a cure for lost time. He’ll walk around Kurapika like they’re made of glass, dedicating every moment to them because he’s terrified that each day will be the last they have together. That’s no way for him to live. They’ll keep this to themselves. They only hope that they can leave him with good memories when they go. 

 

They’re going to die, perhaps sooner or perhaps later. They allow themselves to think selfishly, and decide that if they have to die, they would like to do it  _ loved _ . If they only have a sliver of life left, they’d like to spend it right here. 

 

One step forward becomes a leap, and before they know it, Kurapika has landed in Leorio’s arms. He catches them easily, but not without a stumble and a surprised grunt. Kurapika wraps their legs around his waist and kisses him like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do. Maybe it is. Maybe they’ll die right here. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. They hover over him and smile, brushing their earring out of the way as it slowly rocks towards Leorio’s face. 

 

They rub fondly at the scruff on his jaw, fingers tracing his smile. His eyes go soft and fond, and his smile quirks up in a stupid, beautiful way that makes Kurapika want to kiss him again. They do, and then can’t help but do it a third time. Something warm and wet slides from their cheek and splashes onto Leorio’s skin. Kurapika raises a hand to their face and the tear tracks catch them by surprise. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

When did they start crying? 

 

They can’t remember the last time they cried. They’re not sure they want to think about it.

 

Leorio carries them into the kitchen and sets both Kurapika and the flowers onto the counter. He stands between their legs and his hands, big and strong and careful, find their face. His thumbs immediately go to work on wiping away their tears. 

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in to give them a soothing kiss, “Hey…it’s okay. What brought this on?” 

 

Kurapika glances at the flowers, and then back at Leorio. Their fingers drift through his dark hair and they give a put-upon sigh. Not that he could really bother them, not right now. “Don’t play coy.” They trace his jawline from temple to chin, and then pull him in for another kiss. They want to tell Leorio that they love him—that they love him so much that it’s going to drive them crazy. They want to say  _ yes _ a million times until it doesn’t even sound like a real word anymore. They can only manage a tearful “You’re a sap.” 

 

“Yeah?” Leorio mumbles against their lips. He steps back and look at Kurapika like a man seeing color for the first time. “Your eyes are red, sweetheart.” 

 

“How could they not be?” They give his shoulder an affectionate shove. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.” After a beat, they reach out for his hand and drag him back in between their legs. Their thighs lock around his waist and they cross their ankles against his back to keep him close. Smiling, Kurapika pulls Leorio’s hand towards their face and kisses it. They love these hands. They love every scrape, every callus, every weird bend from a break that didn’t grow back right. The bandage scratches their cheek like Leorio’s stubble, but they don’t mind. The bandage is a testament to his pain, to the effort he went through to pick those flowers for Kurapika.  “I’m saying yes, by the way. Did I neglect to say that?” 

 

Leorio’s eyebrows shuffle together. “Yes?” he asks, like he’s surprised that they’d accept his proposal. Idiot. What did he think they’d say?  _ Thank you, but no thank you?  _ What a moron. They kiss his hand again, and his fingers twitch against their lips. “And...what are you saying yes to, exactly...? I mean, _ I _ know, I just want to hear you say it.” He smiles nervously, and although it’s unnecessary, it’s endearing. Kurapika assumes that they’d be just as nervous to propose to Leorio, even thought they’d never doubt that he would say yes. “It’s more, uh. Romantic that way.” 

 

Kurapika rolls their eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”  _ But I’ll do anything for you.  _ They take his hands in theirs, slotting their fingers together and smiling. “Of course I’ll marry you.” 

 

A pause passes between them, and Leorio’s ears give a curious little twitch, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

 

“You…” A wide smile stretches across his face, and Kurapika sees the excitement rattle his body. Leorio’s happiness always overtakes him like an electric shock, hitting him from head to toe and leaving him buzzing. “You’re gonna marry me?!” 

 

“Of course I am, you idiot! Did you really think I’d say no?!” 

 

Instead of answering, Leorio crushes Kurapika to his body and kisses the breath out of them. Their arms wind around his neck as they yank him even closer. He can’t get close enough, not even if he inches their way inside of them, which they wouldn’t  _ mind  _ or anything! Kurapika’s cheeks grow wet again, but this time they’re not the only one crying. Their tears mix and smear all over their faces, and the entire make out session is probably a mess of tears and saliva, but it doesn’t matter. These might be the best kisses so far. 

 

But Kurapika knows that they’ll pale in comparison to the kiss they and Leorio will share under their marriage tapestry. 

 

Leorio pulls away to kiss down their neck, mindfully nudging their earring out of the way. “We’re engaged,” he announces softly, like either of them needed a reminder. 

 

Kurapika sighs happily. “Yes, we are.” 

 

…

 

So they’re engaged. Leorio still isn’t…a hundred percent sure how it happened, but does it really matter? They’re engaged! 

 

Somewhere between the kitchen counter and the bed, Leorio had stopped to present Kurapika with the ring he’d been carrying around for the past year. They put it on immediately, and the gold band and its inlaid ruby glitter in the moonlight as they lie in bed. 

 

Kurapika’s asleep, blonde hair a halo against the white pillowcase, body soft and exposed underneath the blankets. They look so pretty when they sleep, and it’s not fair. Most people look ugly when they sleep, drooling and snoring, mouths open and catching flies. Not Kurapika, though, and maybe Leorio’s looking at them through rose-tinted glasses because he loves them so much, but he likes to think that it’s an objective fact. Whether they’re dozing on the couch, or passed against the car window, or basking in the afterglow, they’re so damn  _ pretty _ . 

 

It used to make Leorio  _ furious _ , when he was young, and falling in love, and angry about it. He’d stare at them with a tick in his jaw and wonder how the hell someone so annoying could be so beautiful when they sleep. Now, it just makes him smug, because he can watch them snooze like a fallen angel and think  _ that’s mine _ . 

 

Not in an ownership kind of way, not like Kurapika  _ belongs _ to him, but in a reverent way. He has the honor to look at them like this, and to hold them, and make them laugh. He has the absolute privilege to treat them right, to wrap them in the sheets and worship them until sunrise. 

Sometimes Leorio feels like he’s in an art gallery. He’s standing face-to-face with a baroque piece that some idiot has tucked away, far into some corner at the back of the museum. Kurapika is all marble curves and wet drapery—sometimes they’re hard and cold, but they look so  _ soft _ , so lifelike. They’re surrounded like a halo of solid gold, and inlaid rubies illuminate their eyes. He could stand there and stare at them all day. Maybe he’d fall in love with them, become obsessed. Maybe it would drive him crazy. Maybe he’d duck under the velvet rope keeping them apart and climb up there with them, wrap himself around the display and wish that they were flesh, or he were stone. 

 

All  he wants is to be made of the same  _ stuff  _ as Kurapika, be it marble or be it bone. He wants to fuse to them like they were carved from the same boulder, or sewn from the same skin.

 

Kurapika has that effect on him. They want to make him do crazy, stupid things, like climb onto a gallery display, or build a house with his bare hands and fill it with Kurapika’s favorite plants, and babies. Lots of babies, with jet black hair and bright red eyes, who run around the house barefoot and track dirt everywhere. Ah—wouldn’t that be the life? 

 

They’re already halfway there, aren’t they? They’re getting married? It still doesn’t feel real, especially because Leorio has no clue how it happened. All he did was get Kurapika a bouquet, and suddenly they were kissing him, and  _ crying _ —which they never do—and saying  _ yes  _ to a question he didn’t think he’d asked. 

 

Well, he’s not the kind to look a gift horse in the mouth. Leorio gives a yawn, stretching, and wraps an arm around Kurapika. 

 

… 

 

“Whoa!” Gon grabs Kurapika’s and and yanks it close to his face, gaze so focused on the ring on their finger that his eyes start to cross. “That’s so pretty! Leorio bought you that?!” He’s all but standing up on his chair and leaning over the table, and his voice is a bit too loud for a café, even an outdoor one. 

 

Alluka gives Gon a nudge and climbs onto the chair beside him. “I want to see too!” she announces, politely taking Kurapika’s hand. “Oh, it’s a bleeding heart ruby!” A smile illuminates her entire face as she turns Kurapika’s hand this way and that, trying to see the ring from every angle. “That’s so romantic, especially since they’re so rare!” 

 

“And expensive,” Killua adds with a snort as he takes a sip of his milkshake. He kicks Leorio’s shin lightly. “What happened to scrimping and saving, old man?”

 

Leorio wrinkles his nose at the kick and the  _ old man _ comment, jostling Killua with his elbow in retaliation. “Hey, what’s the point of being a hunter if you can’t get some sweet deals on quality jewelry?” he retorts, as if he wouldn’t have paid in full, or even double! He leans back and gives a flick of his wrist. “And anyway, it wasn’t even the star of the proposal! They said yes before they even saw it!” It’s been a week, and he’s still kind of unsure if he proposed to Kurapika, or if Kurapika just looked at him and decided that they were getting married. 

 

Gon and Alluka plonk down into the chair together and immediately put their elbows on the table, resting their chins in their hands attentively. 

 

“Oh?” asks Alluka, “Tell us more, Kurapika! Was it romantic?” 

 

“Did Leorio cry?” Gon adds eagerly. When Leorio gives an embarrassed groan, Gon looks to him with warm eyes and a big grin. “I think it’s nice! Like, you love someone so much that you can’t hold it in, so you cry because some of the love gets out!” 

 

It doesn’t exactly make him feel any more dignified, but Leorio certainly feels less humiliated when Gon puts it that way. 

 

Kurapika smiles and leans their hand into their cheek. The ruby catches the sunlight and little circular rainbows dance across their face. “Yes, it was very romantic.” They sigh, and it’s a nice, lovestruck sound. Leorio preens a little. He makes them so happy that they can drop their professional façade just to smile and sigh. “You see, in my culture, there’s a very special flower that’s rather difficult to find,” they explain, and Leorio sits up a little straighter. “Leaving the village alone is dangerous, so going out to find one was a great risk. And the flower is covered in thorns, so retrieving one can be very painful. Going out to find one is a display of devotion and dedication, and bringing one home to the person you love is how my people proposed to each other.” 

 

Oh. 

 

Leorio suddenly feels very, very stupid. He makes a secret vow to himself, to pretend that he’d planned it all along for the rest of his life. He and Kurapika are happy, so nobody needs to know that their  engagement was a happy accident. 

 

Kurapika tilts their head slightly as they continue, smile growing. “Leorio brought home five of them, which means that he must really love me!” 

 

Leorio leans forward against the table with a stupid, goofy smile and takes their hand in his. And he says, like he’s practicing for the big day, “I do.” 


End file.
